First night
by IDair
Summary: Peter Pan doesn't remember many things, but he does remember this. After all, "You never forget your first." M rated because of reasons!


**Title:** First night

 **Summary:** Peter Pan doesn't remember many things, but he does remember this. After all, " _You never forget your first."_ M rated because of reasons!

 **Timeline:** AU, always AU. Because, seriously? You gotta be kidding me with the whole Rumple's father thing, come on.

 **Main Characters:** Peter Pan, Wendy Darling

 **Disclaimer: I do _not_ own OUAT, I do not, I do not! **

**I'm so sorry but I'm in a little bit of hard place with the next chapter of Belonging at the moment so that will have to wait for a little bit. (I honestly suck at updating/writing long fics, I know, but thanks so, _so_ much for all the follows and favourites, you're all amazing!) **

**But I still love writing Peter and Wendy so please, have this thingy in the meantime and also please, remember the M rating warning! ('Cause it does apply at some point!)**

* * *

" _You never forget your first."_

He couldn't say what it had been.

Even now, now that he's getting used to it, to _her_.

To the warmness of her body against his, to the softness of her lips on his, to the weight of her in his arms, to her wetness on the tip of his fingers.

Now that he's getting used to the feeling of craving her. Like a howling beast craved blood.

He couldn't say what it had been.

He couldn't say how or why everything came to his mind in that moment, flowing fluidly into his brain like water rushing down a river.

They say memory worked in a funny way.

Maybe it was true.

* * *

It was getting late. The sky turning darker and the air getting chillier.

It was almost supper time.

The boys were gathering around, already hungry and ready to go down to the underground house. And he had lost sight of _her_ almost all afternoon.

"Where is mother?" a little boy asks.

Pan is just about to inform everybody that he was going to collect their dear _mother_ right away,when Tootles speaks up.

"I saw her earlier. She said she was going for a walk down the beach and she'd be back in time for dinner."

Pan presses his lips together tightly. His shoulders grow rigid out of sudden.

He isn't so greedy to come and get her himself anymore.

He is about to ask Slightly or Felix to go find her instead.

He just swallows.

 _Don't be silly, Peter._

After all this time?

It would be _extremely_ silly, as she would say, a hint of knowing smile on her mouth and a twinkling light in her eyes.

 _I'll get her,_ he wants to say, but before he can think it twice, he's already heading off towards the beach, without adding anything else and leaving behind Tootles' and the other Lost Boys' puzzled faces.

* * *

The perpetual adolescence that his life had been before she came to the island, had been broken, _shattered_ into pieces in _one_ night.

Just one night by the beach.

Neverland's sky had never looked darker. (Peter Pan himself hadn't witnessed it looking _blacker_.)

With just one kiss, Peter Pan hadn't been Neverland's anymore.

He had been _hers_.

With pieces of white dress tore apart beneath his fingers and only the ocean's sound and her breathing in his ears, she had taken his childhood or whatever was left of it and made her _hers_.

With sand in her hair, tights wrapped around his waist, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and nails scratching the skin of his shoulders.

He hadn't expect that from her.

But after all, he hadn't expect to end that argument like that _either_.

Or _any_ of their arguments for that matter.

In his mind, it surely had a _totally_ different outcome.

It still ended with drops of her blood, but not… _that_ way.

He had stared at her all night, earlier at the camp.

Pipes resting on his lap, he found he could do nothing else but watching her, from across the fire. Not able to tear his eyes away from her.

At some point, he did turn and Felix had shot him an indecipherable look, _as per usual_. But even from the corner of his eyes, he could have bet Felix was questioning why he was standing there watching her.

Maybe he even had his mouth hanging open like a _fool_.

Goddammit, even _Tootles_ caught him staring.

If _she_ had realized it, she certainly had been doing a fine job at not showing it.

Wendy had hardly lifted her head up from her sewing.

But none of the Lost Boys, none of them, could ever imagine what kind of thoughts keep rambling in his head. Never, ever leaving him alone.

Reminiscences of a dream he had just that morning.

Reminiscences of _her,_ between his fingers and right on the top of his lips.

She had called out his name.

 _Peter._

Like hewas something precious, something _hallowed_.

 _Peter._

Like she was standing on the edge of an abyss and she wanted him to _save_ her. Or pull her down into it, maybe. He couldn't tell.

He just wanted her to say his name like that again.

 _Peter._

And if she was falling down and she wanted to bring him with her, for some reason he wanted to follow her. As long as he could hold her like that, he felt like would have followed her _anywhere._

As long she kept saying his name like that again.

 _Peter._

And again.

 _Peter._

"Pan?"

Tootles, or maybe it was Slightly -he couldn't tell, he didn't turn- called him.

Peter blinked and the spot were Wendy was sitting was suddenly empty.

It took him nothing to know she had made her way through the forest and reached the beach and he had followed her there.

* * *

She was doing something.

He knew she was.

She _must_ have.

And he was determined to find out exactly what it was.

She wouldn't get away with it. No matter what.

He was ready to spill her blood if he hadn't gotten answers about that… that _thing_ that kept tormenting him night and day since she came.

She was doing something and whatever it was, he had _enough_ of it.

Almost every morning, he woke up with the thought of her -only, _only_ the thought of her- in his mind, planted there like a seed.

Just that day, he had tried to make go away an imagine of her, all white skin and golden hair, splayed across what it looked like his own bed, waiting there, for _hi_ _m_.

Almost every morning, he woke up _longing_ for her.

And that was going to stop now.

* * *

It was dark around the beach.

Only the pale reflection of the moon trembled with silver light on an immense distension of completely _black_ sea. The sky was just the same.

Peter almost had to squint to distinguish the edges of her figure, but her white nightgown was clear enough to look refulgent everywhere.

Wendy had turned around quickly and he no longer cared to hide his presence or his state of mind to her.

"What do you think you're doing?" he had rumbled, harsh and resentful, anger was taking control of his voice faster than he wished to.

"What?"A scowl appeared on her brow, as she questioned him. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you think _you_ 're doing?" he didn't like repeating himself, he didn't do it ever, but for her had done more than one exception before.

He wanted explanations. She must have been doing something to him. She _must_. There was no other explanation for what he was feeling.

"What are you talking about?" she had repeated, surely not less baffled, frowning a lot deeper.

He had stepped forward, into her space, stopping right in front of her.

"Don't _play_ with me" he had hissed between clenched teeth.

That had been odd.

That had been the _o_ _ddest_ thing he ever thought could come out of his mouth, really.

He had seen her blinking a couple times in deep confusion, lips slightly parted, maybe she had found it odd too, but he couldn't tell for sure. He was loosing his control and he didn't like it one bit.

That had had been odd because he l _oved_ playing. No matter the game, he just loved it. He lived for games. His entire kingdom was made of games and pretenses.

And if Wendy was his playmate then, he couldn't ask for better, but that… that _game_ of hers... that thing she was doing to him…

He felt like he couldn't take it a second longer. And he _wouldn't_.

She was doing something.

She had pulled him in some kind of trance only minutes earlier, not able to do anything but being enchanted by her mere presence, like some kind of _pathetic,_ weakling _worshipper_ _._

He saw her in his dreams, at night, while he _knew_ she was sleeping in her treehouse. _Alone_.

In Neverland many things were possible, but…

Why would she visit his dreams? _How_ could she visit them?

And in the morning she was gone. Because she'd never really been there.

No, the Wendy made of flash and bones walked around the camp in the morning, sewing clothes and smiling back at the little boys, she walked _his_ soil.

And _that_ was real.

While the things she said to him at night, the mouth that was kissing him, the skin she let him touch _weren't._

And he was the one who woke up alone and cold and _h_ _a_ _unted_. Unable to look at her in the eye and not think of… _it_. Of _her_. In his bed, inside his arms, like she _wanted_ them around her, like she wanted his _kiss_. Like she wanted _him_.

 _Oh_ , she was doing something.

She was playing some kind of revolting trick and she would spill out the truth to him.

 _Now._

Wendy stared at him, eyes narrowed, then she kept speaking."I swear have no idea what you're talking about, Pan..."

 _Pan._

He remembered disliking the sound of his name on her mouth so much that he stopped listening to whatever she was saying.

 _Pan._

 _Not_ Peter.

She hardly called him Pan. She did it only when she got tired of his teasing, of _his_ games.

Or when she got really angry and couldn't control it anymore.

He knew that expression.

She was tired. She had listened to him long enough, she didn't wanna play his game. She was also irritated, he could see it from the stone set on her eyes and the hard curl on the line of her lips. He didn't care.

 _H_ _e_ was getting furious.

"…and it's late and I want to go to bed, so if you don't _mind_ , I'm going back to the treehouse now."He saw her moving suddenly, walking just a step past him and just acted.

He grabbed her arm, graceless, and _pulle_ _d_.

"You're not going anywhere until you answer me"

He wanted an explanation, a confession from her. "What did you think?" he blurted out, almost yelling. "That you can ruin me? With your _sappy_ love stories and frilly dresses? You think you can take _me_ down? With your grownup _fantasies_? "

He saw her narrowing her eyes for a fraction of a moment, then she made a strange sound, like she could barely hold back a… laughter.

Peter thought about some magic she might have used against him, some kind of spell she might have done in some way.

Because she _must_ have done something.

But not even for a moment he had contemplated that his suppositions could get _ridiculous_. Laughable, even.

Wendy had thought differently.

"You're _crazy_ " she told him. Bluntly, with an incredulous edge in her voice, in her eyes, and for once no trace of her usual compassion.

Peter's lips twitched.

Yes.

Yes, _maybe_ he was crazy. But the fault was _hers_.

And if she wasn't going to talk he would have made or she would have _paid_.

He still had his fingers wrapped around her forearm, digging hard into the soft flesh.

"Let me go, now" her voice grew just a bit higher, as she sent a piercing glare at him. When he didn't relent one bit, she twisted her arm to get away from his grip but with no result.

" _No_ " he had said, eyes fixed on hers like wanting to burn holes, she tilted her head and open her mouth in some sort of outraged expression, because she wouldn't accept his obstinate, nonsensical _no_.

Peter parted his lips because he had meant to say something else.

Something _more_.

Violent words were already floating into his mind, hurried and nasty and blurry.

 _What the hell do you think you're playing at,_ _uh_ _?_

 _You think you can defeat me?_ _I'm_ _Peter Pan!_

 _Bloody, answer me!_

But he couldn't spill them off his lips.

After that everything got messy.

Wendy moved fast.

He watched her trying to lift up her free arm in an attempt to hit him or even slap him maybe, so she could free herself from his grip, but he had grabbed her other wrist with his hand too and stopped her before she could do anything.

Wendy had wriggled away hard. So hard that she had lost her balance and fall down, dragging him with her.

 _You think you can take me down…_

They had hit the ground ungraciously.

A bump of bones clashing and both of their moans of pain mixing up loud in the almost silent crashing of the ocean.

Her nightdress got entangled between their bodies, and even if she was pinned under the weight of his body, almost unable to move at all, Wendy had tried to straggle against him, trying to get away from him.

He still had both his hands circled around her wrists. He pinned them down at the sides of her head, pressing his entire body down against hers to make her stop twisting.

 _You think you can take me down…_

Only _then_ , he had realized he was laying completely on top of her.

His hips got nestled right between her legs somehow and her tights were left bare, exposed, around his sides.

It was very dark, but the creamy white of her legs for a moment burned his eyes, making his throat clenched almost painfully.

 _...with your g_ _rown_ _up_ _fantasies?_

With cold-stone panic settling down in his stomach, in his bones, he couldn't stop that thought from sneaking horridly into his mind.

 _...with your g_ _rown_ _up_ _fantasies?_

Those fantasies weren't hers.

No.

They were _his_.

Because that was what he saw in all of _his_ dreams _._

Her, underneath him all soft and sweet and… and the only thing he wanted was to have her. (If he was a devil, then she was a _witch_ , because of the things she's done to him.)

Because suddenly, he was fighting against the urge to thrust his hips up. Right against hers.

And he hadn't even realized she had finally stopped squirming.

He had looked up at her face, with new, growing fears in his heart and terror in his eyes, and for a fraction of a moment he thought he saw her eyes were as scared as his.

He hadn't even realized he had let go of one of her wrists to let his fingers lace up with hers.

His hand wrapped around hers in almost _delicate_ caress.

And it wasn't her doing, it was _his_.

Wendy's eyes shifted to their joined hands, then she searched his eyes again in the dark, her gaze brighter, sweeter.

"I'm not _playing_ anything, Peter" she had whispered to him, voice thin, but soft and honest, the only way he learned to know her.

And then she had _kissed_ him.

* * *

Peter Pan knew everything of Neverland.

He knew they called it the realm of dreams.

And of course it was.

He crafted it from _his_ dreams.

And with one of his hand intertwined with hers and Wendy's mouth on his, the dream suddenly turned into _real_.

She was the same Wendy from his dreams and different all together.

There wasn't nearly enough difference between what he dreamt and what came to be in Neverland. (He was the king for a reason.)

But with her, he always felt like he was on the edge of his every dream, of his every wish.

Not close enough to catch it and make it stay with him, keep it with him _forever_ , but not far enough to let it go and morph into the next one.

He had hated it. He had hated _her_ for it.

The way he remembers it now is sweeter, softer probably that it ever was.

Than it _could_ be. (He _wasn't_ soft. He could never be.)

But that was memory did, how it worked, he guessed.

Because neither Wendy had been soft that night.

That had been an hunger, a _thirst_ in her that made him think she had craved that moment as much as he did. And made his heart revel in with the force of a hurricane.

She had stopped struggling, fighting against him but that _fire_ hasn't extinguished.

It only just burned brighter, right after.

* * *

No, Wendy hadn't been soft.

He might have trapped inside his arms, underneath him, but she had hold him back like she wanted nothing else than being _there_.

She had never stopped kissing him, breaking apart only to gasp for air.

She hadn't hesitated even for a moment. Or at least he hadn't seen her. Maybe he was just too overtaken, too many things, hidden desires that his heart had kept screaming for no matter how feverishly he denied it, were happening out of sudden.

She hadn't looked unsure, she hadn't been afraid of what might happen, what he might do to her not even for a moment.

Certainly, there's always been an inner tenderness in her that had showed up in her kisses, in her touch. She had lowered up her lips to kiss his cheekbone at some point -like she wanted to reassure _him-_ right before he had grabbed her hips and thrust into her.

But if he had ripped her nightdress off of her, she had pulled away at his tunic as well, if he had bitten her, she had bitten him right back, and if he had taken what he realized he wanted to claim as his since the first time she set foot on that same sand, (unable to even contemplate that it might be something _she_ would give when _she_ decides it) she had taken what belonged to her, in return.

The last drop of innocence he could still claim had been hers and hers only.

* * *

There had been a pause at some point.

He might have stopped kissing her at some point.

He felt his heartbeat echoing against his rib cage and Wendy's heavy breathing in his ear.

And in some remote corner of his mind, he couldn't help but thinking that was not something he could do. That was for _grow_ _nups_. And he was growing up by the second already.

That wasn't a game he could play, was it? She told him she wasn't playing but _he_ was, wasn't he? He _always_ was.

For some reason he could tell she hadn't like that pause very much, maybe _she_ didn't wanna have time to _think,_ because suddenly shehad clenched her fingers into the nape of his neck, pulling him down to again her and she had sunk her teeth in his lower lip so hard it hurt.

As a result, his fingers then moved urgent and graceless, tore apart the cotton of her nightgown.

(He didn't care. He didn't care. He wanted her, and bloody hell, she was there, _real_ , flesh and bone and she wanted him back and he was going to _get_ her.)

And then what was left of his lucidity, of his _mind_ , got all lost when he felt her naked at last underneath him, chest brushing his, legs wrapping around him, pulling him as close as possible, and hips slowly rocking to meet his.

* * *

It was dark all around them.

It was dark but he still saw tears glittering on the corner of her eyelashes as she shut her eyes and cried out, sharp and painful into his ear. He had shifted, almost awkwardly, then thrust up his hips into her and she had clanged to him so harshly, panted _so_ hard. She had scratched one of his shoulder so deep that he thought she drew blood.

Was she… _h_ _urting_?

He didn't want to care. He didn't _want_ to.

Not when he was... _in_ her? _Inside_ of her? He didn't know. He couldn't see clearly, he couldn't grasp the meaning of it. All he could think was that he wanted to bury himself deeper and deeper, push against her flesh over and over.

He just followed his instinct, they both did it. He followed what his body was telling him, what it was desperately chasing. He followed _her_ lead in some way.

But…

He didn't know what he was supposed to do after all. Not _really._ No matter how vivid his dreams were, he'd never _done_ anything. Anything at all.

And despite that inward wrongness of it -Peter Pan would never he never wanted to turn into a _bloody_ grown up- he couldn't stand the idea of doing it _wrong_. Of doing it wrong by her.

So he had stopped again, he had searched her face and he saw her eyes open now, but still glistening. He trembled. His heart thumped so hard against his chest it _pained_ him.

He was about to talk, _asks_ her something, not standing not to know things that maybe she did, but she hadn't let him, she had caught his lips and kissed him again.

And, unable to do anything else, he had kissed her back.

* * *

She had wrapped her arms around his neck, her lips leaving his only to brush over his jaw, eyelashes fluttering on the side of his face, she arched into him and he just _needed_ to move.

He pushed up against her once, _twice_.

Palms curling, digging hard into her hip and a gasp already on the top of his mouth.

He had dropped his forehead into her shoulder because for some reason he couldn't bare to look at her, like he felt too strong, too powerful and so completely defenseless at the same time.

He felt her fingers clawed tightly into his hair.

He felt her breasts pressing up against his chest with each of his movements.

He moved.

Wendy panted.

Again and again.

And again.

He heard his breathing speeding up faster and faster, heartbeat drumming, loud and powerful, and a constant subdued growling that might have been his own voice too, but he wasn't sure.

Then, he heard a growl louder than the others. (He couldn't hold back the raw groan from the back of his throat.)

His hips slammed up harshly.

He shut his eyes tightly.

And it was _over_.

Soon. Suddenly.

He collapsed against her, breathless and completely spent.

* * *

He had looked at her _after_.

When she still was underneath him, in his embrace. When _he_ still was in her embrace.

He could still feel his cheeks burning with heat and he wondered if she could tell that, damn it, he was _bl_ _ushing_.

She had her curls spread all over the ground, one of his hand, pressed just above her nape, was cradling the back of her head, and he still had no idea at what point he did that.

But he couldn't really be surprised.

Her eyes wandered on his face for a second, before finally meeting his.

She had lifted a hand to touch his cheek, then, gentle and tender, her fingertips brushed against the corner of his mouth. He held his breath.

The last thing Peter remembers is that she _smiled_.

Quietly, _slowly_ she smiled.

And suddenly, the deep, black sky above them shone with _s_ _tars_.

* * *

Peter reaches the beach, the tip of his boots digs deep into the sand.

He stops some inches form the ocean.

Wendy is there, sitting on a rock far away, at the end of the beach.

Her nightgown wrapped up to her calves, the water wetting her bare feet.

She hasn't seen him, she is too far away, too absorbed to notice.

No, still now, he couldn't tell what it had been.

But not _really._

That was nothing but a lie.

And who would have bought it?

Certainly not her.

 _Don't be silly, Peter._

He's always been such a big liar. She had even dared to call him a _coward_ once. (Not without consequences, but nevertheless, she _dared._ )

He hadn't set foot on the beach alone _with her_ ever since that night.

And many, many nights had followed after that.

He slept with her in the treehouse in all the possible way every night.

After all, having pebbles rolling and scratching against her back and sand spread all over her hair was not something she wished for, he guessed. And neither did he.

So he made sure they could find way more _comfortable_ places to be together.

Peter breaths in, quiet and calm, and just stands there, watching her.

Yeah, memory _d_ _id_ work in a funny way.

Even from there, he could swear he saw Wendy smiling to herself.

A _funny_ way, indeed.

In the sky above her, the sun dies, all orange and golden.

* * *

 **Trying to stick with Peter's POV for the entire story was a little _bitch_. (Just to remain in character :P).**

 **I hope I did at least a slightly decent job and that you guys liked it.**

 **A** **s always,** **t** **hanks for reading.**


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